And Then There Were Eight
by Riddles of the Werewolf
Summary: SLASH. After DH. Everyone was wrong when they assumed Voldemort only had seven horcruxes. Now he's back and younger. But what will happen when Harry and Voldemort meet? This is a twist on the normal two-people-are-bound-and-forced-together story.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any material written by J. K. Rolling or Walt Whitman.

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**A/N**: This is just the prologue…the chapters will be longer.

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**And Then There Were Eight**

**The Prologue**

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_Clear and sweet is my soul,_

_And clear and sweet is all that is not my soul._

**_-__Song of Myself, Walt Whitman_**

**ATTWE**

The only light came from the stars.

Seventeen cloaked figures were gathered around the grave of a one Tom Riddle Senior, perfectly blending in with the shadows that had consumed them years before.

The stringy grass beneath their feet blew every-which way in the surprisingly warm wind of the nighttime.

"So who's leading the ritual?" A brown and greasy haired man asked, facing a tall blonde who seemed to be the one in power at the moment.

"I am," The blonde replied. "Considering I was the one who planned and organized this meeting, Augustus."

Augustus Rookwood scoffed. "Yes, the person leading will be the same person who used his money to buy his way onto the light-side when he crawled to them on his hands and knees."

"You will do well to thank me," The blonde hissed. "_I_ was the one who organized the break-out. Without me you'd still be rotting away in Azkaban." He grimaced. "And I _never _left the Deatheaters."

The person sneered. "Well you should have been locked in there with us. But you ran, like the unfaithful little coward you are. You abandoned your Deatheaters, your _Lord_, and bribed your way to freedom, _just like the last time_." He spat. "You're worth no more than Pettigrew, _Lucius_."

Lucius drew his wand, but the youngest person among the crowd got in-between the two wizards. "He only fled to make sure I was alive," Draco told Rookwood with his eyes flashing. "He did not flee for his own safety. He did not abandon the Deatheaters. And you, Augustus Rookwood, would do well to mind only what you know."

Pushing his son aside, Lucius stood inches away from Augustus. "If I had been locked away, do you really think you'd be out now? I got you out when I could have lived my life as a regular wizard. But I choose to be a Deatheater, as you have, and tonight we are serving our soul-sworn duties to serve our Lord. So put away you childish grudges."

Augustus said nothing but shoved pass Lucius, hitting his shoulder as he did so.

"I agree with Rookwood," said Yaxley, a man with a hard face and matching dark brown hair and eyes. He turned towards Lucius. "Why should we trust anyone in your family? It's because of your wife that Harry Potter lived!"

"Yes, my _wife_, not me. And the Dark Lord will just have to punish her as he sees fit once he's returned." Lucius held up silver bracelet with a single red ruby. "And he _will _return. Tonight."

"And how are you sure of that?"Macnair asked, crossing his arms, a scowl placed beneath his thin black mustache. "How do you know the spell will work? How do you know that _object _you hold is His horcrux?"

"What's it to you, Walden?" Snapped Augustus. "You're just like Malfoy over here. You ran away after you saw our Lord collapsed. You ran, even though you _knew _he wasn't really dead!"

"No one wants to be locked up in Azkaban," Macnair answered. "And excuse me if I thought I'd be more useful running free than locked up, thousands of miles away from the Dark Lord."

Augustus spat in response.

"Enough of this bickering!" Lucius demanded. "We don't want the muggles hearing us, noticing us…we don't want them coming _near _us."

"And if they did?" Crabbe Sr. asked.

"Why, we'd just give them a little preview of what we'd be doing to everyone else after we regained control." Augustus gave a wicked smile as his eyes darkened. "We'd let them scream a little and then w-"

"Enough!" Lucius hissed. "We don't do anything to the muggles unless we want the Aurors interfering. Do you know how catastrophic it would be if they found out the Deatheaters were rejoining again? And that Potter and his friends know about the horcruxes – it would only be a matter of time before the wizarding world knew the Dark Lord was not dead!"

Yaxley asked, "We can't just put up a simple char – "

"No!" Lucius barked. "Any concealment spells will affect the ritual! So the sooner this is over, the better."

Bitterly, Augustus replied, "Well let's get this damn thing over with then."

"Well is everyone here?" Lucius asked, peering over the large group of people.

"People present include everyone we broke out of Azkaban who are," Macnair reported, and nodded his head in greeting to each person as he called their names. "The Callows, Dolohov, Goyle, both Lestrange brothers, Mulciber, Nott, Rookwood, as you already know – " He gave Augustus a pointed look – "Selwyn, Travers, and Yaxley.

"And of course there is Jugson, your son, and myself. All of the living Deatheaters are present except for Avery. He fled from the battle at Hogwarts and no one has seen him since."

"Damn coward," Augustus growled as he squeezed his wand.

Draco," Lucius addressed, ignoring Rookwood's comment. "It looks like you _will_ be taking part after all."

"_Him_?" Augustus protested. "He's just a child, Lucius! He can't participate in such a complex ritual like this."

"I am _not _a mere child," Draco snarled. "I could take yo-"

"He knows the spell, he is of age," Lucius interrupted. "And we need seventeen people for this to work. Or have you forgotten about the powers of numbers?"

"That's right," Yaxley said. "The number seventeen – it's both luck and power; two things we can't get enough of when trying something as dangerous as this."

"There is still no way that little brat can produce enough magic to fill in Avery's part!"

Holding his hand out to stop Draco from speaking Lucius spoke, "Are you telling me you wouldn't risk your life for our Lord now, after everything else you have done for him?" He sneered. "And you call me a coward."

Augustus stood taller, towering over everyone in the crowd. "Only for the Dark Lord's return will I do this. Not for you or your little spawn. _Just_ for the Dark Lord, and his power to destroy all those absentminded disgraces who call themselves _light_. Only to destroy those despicable people who are ruining the wizarding world."

Eyes narrowed, Lucius nodded tightly.

Macnair coughed slightly and with the attention on him he pried, "I still want to know how you're positive that bracelet is the last horcrux of the Dark Lord. If there was some mistake, or some misunderstanding, and it turned out the bracelet was just a piece of decorative jewelry – "

" – The spell would backfire and kill us." The oldest Malfoy spoke. "Yes, it's very risky. But this object is definitely a horcrux. For one, our Master had made his previous horcruxes out of antiques – Helga Hufflepuff's cup, Rowena Ravenclaws' diadem, Salazar Slytherin's locket…do you see a pattern here? Well, he also had found something that belonged to Godric Gryffindor." He held up the bracelet.

"Now of course, that doesn't prove this is a horcrux. But if any of you feel doubt, just come _near _the object and you'll feel that very familiar dark magic radiating off it."

Macnair boldly stepped up and placed his hand over Godric's bracelet. He stepped back and shrugged defeated. "You're right. There's no doubt. It's a horcrux."

"Besides," Lucius smirked. "What else could have made your Dark Marks burn?" Lucius pulled up his sleeve and placed the horcrux on his Dark Mark, burning the others' arms in return.

"If there's no doubt, are we ready, then?" Yaxley impatiently asked.

"Well only if everyone has the incantation memorized." Lucius answered as they all formed in a circle around Tom Riddle Sr.'s grave. "Well do you all?" He snapped when he was met with silence.

A murmur of 'yeses' sounded throughout the circle.

"Good," Jugson, with red tinted hair and dark blue eyes, grumbled under his breath, speaking for the first time tonight. "Took one hell of a time to construct the incantation, you know, since there were no written spells for bringing a Dark Lord back to life through a horcrux."

"Your work will be rewarded, Jugson, I'm sure of it," Yaxley encouraged.

Lucius walked to the grave and set the horcrux at the foot of it before rejoining the circle.

"Now make sure to keep your wands pointed at the horcrux for the entire spell. We _can not _afford to make any mistakes." He looked around the circle, making eye contact with each person. "Now, then, begin on three. And _remember _to speak in Latin. Even during the individual portion."

He took a deep breath. "One…two…three!"

Everyone began to speak.

"_In ancient hortus qua is eram quondam reborn, _

_Nos scisco vos pro him ut orior oriri ortus quondam magis. _

_Huic res suus animus lies,_

_Quod suus veneficus sileo intus nostrum cores." _

The horcrux levitated about two feet off the ground, not swaying once in the growing harsh wind.

"_Septumdecim wiling alio es hic tonight, _

_Ut tribuo suus animus a tertius chance. _

_Ut is adveho , is adveho , nos mos recipero, _

_Quisquis fortuna vos have in repono."_

It started glowing a faint green.

"_Succurro him orior oriri ortus , fortuna, _

_Succurro him orior oriri ortus. _

_Orior oriri ortus iterum , nostrum Senior,_

_Orior oriri ortus iterum."_

It was now the horcrux began to smoke from its spot in the air, and a high pitched voice which seemed to come from no where asked in Latin, "And do you willingly lend your magic away?"

One by one, everyone said, "_EGO congruo_." I accept.

And after a person said it, they would feel almost all their magic drain from them, and their knees would buckle as they struggled to stay standing – using very last bit of their _will _to stay standing. As the last person finished the ritual and the spell ended everyone practically collapsed to the ground in fatigue.

And they were all so light-headed and weary they didn't notice the bracelet had burst into flames.

And they didn't notice a tall and handsome _human _looking twenty year old stood in it's place.

They didn't notice that they succeed.

That the spell worked.

That Lord Voldemort was back.

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**A/N**: Okay, I don't know Latin at all, so I had to settle for an online translator, so I know the grammar is horrible. So here's the English version (bare with me, I'm not good with those spells/chants things…so this sounds _**really **_cheap):

_On the ancient grounds where he was once reborn,_

_We ask you for him to rise once more._

_In this object his soul lies,_

_And his magic rests within our cores._

_Seventeen wiling persons are here tonight,_

_To give his soul a third chance._

_As he comes, he comes, we will accept,_

_Whatever fate you have in store._

_Help him rise, fates._

_Help him rise._

_Rise once more, our Lord_

_Rise once more._

-Oh, and also, if anyone has a question about who was who within the Deatheaters just review or PM me asking, considering a lot of the Deatheater characters aren't well known. I mean, I know I had to go and familiarize myself with all of them before writing this chapter.

But the next chapter will be Harry's POV. Like I said above, this is just the prologue.


	2. More Than A Spark Of

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any material written by J. K. Rolling the Mountain Goats.

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**A/N**: Oh this chapter was so hard to write. I hate Ginny…_hate_…even though she barely even comes up. It was still hard.

Please ignore the boring introduction to the story. I had to put in a few paragraphs about background information and all that, it was boring to write, probably boring to read. I'm being honest, it's always like that with these stories. But it's only a few words, won't take to long to read, and it's important, so don't skip.

Long update, yes, I know, but let's look on the bright side: new chapter! Which means more procrastinating on whatever work you _should _be doing right now, and let's be honest with ourselves, we're _all _avoiding something.

But hey, we're not going to think about that right now. This is FanFiction, A.K.A, Website for the Bored and Unmotivated.

Enjoy it while it lasts.

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**And Then There Were Eight**

**Chapter One: More Than A Spark Of**

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_Smiling faces flawlessly rehearsed,  
We are sleek and beautiful,  
We are cursed._

_Ready for the future,  
Ready for the world about to come._

_-**The Mountain Goats, Slow West Vultures**_

**TTWE**

"It's only been a month!" Harry couldn't help but shout as his glass shattered, pumpkin juice splattering everywhere. "A fucking month! How could this have happened?!"

Seventeen year old Harry Potter couldn't contain his magic as he sent angry flares of it towards inanimate objects around the Burrow. Chairs turned into tables, a nearby mouse turned into a goblet, light-bulbs broke and the air became heavier, thicker. Mrs. Weasley was busy reversing all the accidental magic. Hermione, Ron, and Ginny could only stare concerned at their obviously distressed friend.

He glared at the newspaper. The heading read: **You Know Who Really Dead? Harry Potter Really Light?** And the picture below it was one of the dark mark, the piercing eye sockets of the skull seeming to mock him.

It all seemed unfair, but really, when did it not?

But things were suppose to be changed now. Things were suppose to be _normal_. And everything_ had_ been normal. And everything seemed to be going well.

Take this morning, for instance. George, for the_ first _time since Fred had…passed, had gone out with Percy to Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. Albeit it was only to clean up a bit, but still, it was a huge step towards recovery!

And, and what else? Arthur left for work, but that wasn't so unusual. Afterwards Harry had helped Molly with the cooking. Since he had been staying at the Burrow he felt the need to help out with chores, work, and even wanted to help with their finical problems. Mrs. Weasley of course refused to take any of Harry's money, though, saying he needed it to save up for his own place. Harry didn't argue there; he had already been by a few places in both the wizarding and muggle community, and he _would _need all the galleons he could carry if he wanted to support himself for another few months, until he would finally be allowed to take the Auror test and get a job (honestly, he was lucky they were even letting him be tested since he hadn't graduated. Despite the fact that Deatheaters ran his school and were trying to kill him, you never knew what excuses the Ministry would whip up to make his life more miserable than it already was).

Still though, Harry felt guilty about staying at the already too-crowded Burrow. He just didn't have any other place to stay, unless he considered about confronting the Dursley's again, but that was an option he was going to avoid.

After helping Mrs. Weasley with breakfast, Ginny was already sitting and the table, and Ron was groggily stumbling down the stairs. They sat down for breakfast when a loud _crack _sounded through the room. Hermione had apparated, Daily Prophet in hand, and lips pursed.

And of course after that Harry had grabbed the newspaper, where all he had to do was look at the front page to know what it meant.

Okay, so maybe that morning wasn't the _best _example of a good, normal morning.

"Whoa there," Ron interrupted his thoughts, hesitantly take hold of said Daily Prophet moving it behind his back. "We don't want you burning a hole through the paper."

Harry ignored him, and snatched the Prophet out of Ron's hand with a snarl. He didn't pay attention to the concerned and frightened looks he was receiving, either. He didn't give a damn about anyone in the room. The only thing he was even remotely interested in was the Deatheaters and their precious lord.

With his jaw locked and eyes narrowed be began to read.

_It had only been a month since life for the Wizarding World had turned for the better. No one needs reminding of the dark year we all had to live through while You Know Who was in command. But Harry Potter, the boy who grew up in the light, the boy who had risked his life over and over for this Wizarding World risked his life for the last time as he faced the Dark Lord and triumphed in battle. He had brought the Wizarding World back into the light, making it possible for no one to live in fear._

_Or at least that's what we were all lead to believe. _

_Only last night did the remaining Deatheaters rampage through Diagon Alley. They set their focus on Ollivander's Wand Shop. They stole hundreds of wands and killed the poor old man only leaving the Dark Mark to hover over the ransacked shop. And as they were leaving an anonymous witness claims to have heard the soft murmurs of the Deatheaters talking about the Dark Lord. _

_Although it is unknown if the Dark Lord mentioned is truly the same person we all fear it to be, but another question that rises from this rampage supports our darkest fears. What could the Deatheaters possibly want with all those wands? Could they, by any chance, be trying to find a new match for their lord? Why else would they need hundreds of wands? If it was a different Dark Lord that the Deatheaters were discussing then why would s/he need a new wand? For as my sources tell me, You Know Who's wand was destroyed in a previous battle with the Boy Who Lived when Mr. Potter was attacked trying to escape his muggle house on a broom. _

_Or, should I say "attacked"?_

_Harry Potter has constantly had the Wizarding World question his loyalty, and that ended after he "killed" He Who Must Not Be Named once and for all. But now that there are new raids, and now that the Deatheaters are acting bolder and slowly growing in numbers, we, as a nation, must question if it's because they have a Lord once more. _

_And what evidence goes against Harry Potter now? _

_The defeat of You Know Who_ _knows seems a little too convenient. After he was "dead" the ministry relaxed, and even let go of 25% of their Aurors, since there was no longer a need for so many duelers. With less Aurors, there was also a decrease in surveillance around the wizard world. There has also been less contact with the muggle world._

_Could Harry Potter have helped to fake You Know Who's demise? Could this have been their plan all along? Was You Know Who slowly growing stronger and finding more recruits as we decreased our defensives? Is the Chosen One titled for that of the light side, or the dark?_

_It's perhaps the only conclusion suitable for this circumstance. After all, it does look as if You Know Who is back. And how else could this be possible if the Boy Who Lived was suppose to be his downfall._

_You Know Who back?_

_Harry Potter dark?_

_You decide._

"I can't believe this," He muttered in a deep voice quietly, but the volume didn't matter. The room was silent. Everyone heard him. "I _can not _believe this!" He hissed again, louder, crumpling the paper and tossing it to the other side of the room.

"Mate, calm down," Ron insisted his hands moving up to a defensive position. "You don't even know if it's true. Based on the source it's coming from it probably isn't."

Harry closed his eyes with his hand at his temple. He wasn't going to be calming down anytime soon.

"Ron's right, dear," Mrs. Weasley interjected and rushed over to Harry, patting his shoulders in encouragement. "There isn't any way that You Know Who could possibly be alive."

"She's right, Harry," Hermione started who voice slightly shaky. "Voldemort isn't back. You destroyed his horcruxes remember?"

Harry shrugged of Mrs. Weasley and moved so he faced everyone. "It doesn't bloody matter if it is or isn't Voldemort! The Deatheaters are obviously serious about _something_. And that can't be good, now can it?"

"Harry, please, calm down," Ginny asked with a stern but caring voice.

He clenched his fists. "Are you not listening to me?" He incredulously asked. "Don't you _care_? Does this not seem slightly suspicious?" He looked around at everyone who seemed to be avoiding eye contact. "What?"

"You're over-reacting Harry," Hermione stated. "Remember the other raids? They mean nothing. It's just the Deatheaters being childish; refusing to see the war is over. Refusing to see they lost." Her eyes pleaded with his. "And you need to remember that too. _They _lost. _We _won. Please, Harry, please."

Harry opened his mouth to speak, in obvious disagreement, but Ron rushed to speak before he could say anything. "I know you're so used to getting caught up in things like this, but you need to realize this is being slightly obsessive. Can't you focus on something _normal _for a change?"

And now calmly he spoke, a soft tremor rippling through his voice. "You're serious?" The now evident silence and guilty expression on his opponent's face was enough of an answer. In the same voice, but now with the tremor replaced by a crescendo of anger Harry asked, "And this is how you all feel?"

Again, silence answered him.

Hearing another dish break Harry stormed past the people in the kitchen to outside, a soft _pop _being the only sound that alerted everyone that Harry had left.

**MTS**

He apparated to the Leakey Cauldron before exiting out into the streets of London, hoping there would be something that could occupy his attention away from his chaotic world.

Well, maybe chaotic was a little to extreme. Maybe he was over-exaggerating everyone's reactions. Should he really blame his friends for wanting to think about something other than war, since that is what has been consuming their thoughts since first year? Should he really be angry with Ginny? It didn't seem fair, all she wanted him to do was be calm and relaxed…she only wanted what was best for him. He shouldn't be upset about that…

But couldn't they at least try to understand _his _position? After all, he had put up with more than anything! He had had war looming over his head since his _birth_, and only moments ago he was cursing the newspaper for interrupting his _normal _world. If there was anyone who was tired of discussing the latest motivates of the Deatheaters, it was _him_. And yet, he still cared, because…

…well, why did he care?

Harry continued walking through the packed roads of muggle London, searching for an answer to this question.

But why was he searching? Shouldn't the answer be right in front of him? He had been using it since the first time he asked himself this very question, in his first year, when going down to prevent the Philosophers stone from being stolen. Why did he care? Why did he do what he did? It was to help people. That's why he cared.

Right?

Anger built up inside him as his frustration with his own thoughts overwhelmed him. He heard a small crash of a nearby stand collapsed as he walked past it.

Why was this so difficult to answer?

He was _Harry Potter_, the boy who should've died. His life had been intertwined with the complex web of war since Voldemort attacked him that Halloween night. And by now, after everything he fought for and did, the strings of his life had sunken into those webs so deeply there was no chance of ever freeing them. He had gotten himself this deep into the war, there was no way he could possibly back out.

That was why he cared.

Or was it?

Just because he was involved didn't mean he had to care. And since Voldemort was now gone, his job was done. He didn't have to concern himself over anything new. He played his part. It was more than enough. If Voldemort came back a second time, well, he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

So, going back to the original issue, did that mean he _didn't_ care about the Deatheaters?

And if he didn't care, why was he angry with Ron, and Hermione, and Ginny for not caring as well?

_Because_, that pesky voice inside him answered. _They think you're still head deep in war, whether you are or not. They shouldn't ask you to ignore something you are passionate about. They should care because you care. _

Harry ran a hand through his thick black hair in frustration.

He was still unsure about which he side he stood on. He didn't know if he did, or didn't, care about what happened with the Deatheaters in Diagon Alley last night, and he didn't know why he would or wouldn't care even if he knew.

Which meant he didn't now what he was going to do. Should he stand back, or jump into action?

There were too many options. Too many expectations.

He – was – just – _so _– **angry** –

Out of the blue, a violent wave of energy was rushed through his mind. Instinctively, Harry brought his hand to his head, clutching it in pain. That one wave of pain was almost even enough to distract him from explosion in the store parallel of him.

The store exploded.

Or at least that was how it seemed.

The window and display case was pushed into the store, glass shattering in frightening speeds in all the most fatal directions. People started screaming, the dust and glass seemed to never clear, the atmosphere itself seemed to press down on Harry so heavily that time seemed to stop.

But of course it hadn't.

With a few blinks of his eyes, Harry began to register what had just happened.

What he had just done.

Accidentally.

Eyes a little wide, he just stood there, his body still frozen in mid step. The fog was clearing, the screams had died down, and now groans and panicked voices were heard. A few muggles pulled their cell-phones out and were calling the police.

Harry couldn't move.

"Yes, that's right, the glass just broke for no reason."

His mind whirling out of grasp.

" – injured! Yes, I can't say for sure, but it was horrible! P-people are hurt! Please hurry!"

Thoughts tumbling to darkness.

"Is this an emergency? For godsakes, I think I know any emergency when I see one! Get down here now! The address is – "

Spinning, spinning, spiraling.

"Never saw anythin' quite like it in my life. Terrorists, it was. I'll bet ya my next paycheck (Don't believe me? Here, let's write it down!). Good for nothin' terrorists!"

Harry was in shock. And, in all honesty, not many things could do that to him.

But Merlin! He wasn't any better than the Deatheaters! Directing his anger out on the muggles, wait no, not muggles, _other people_. He had just hurt, and, dare he think it?, killed innocent people. Accident or not, there was no excuse.

Green eyes fogged over in haze.

Why was he so out of control lately? His mind was running in circles, his magic was being lashed out without his say. He was loosing his mind. He was becoming a monster.

And no one could help him.

Ignoring everyone around him, and blocking out all the questions and sounds, Harry ran away.

From the destroyed store,

From his life,

From _everything_,

…With young scarlet eyes watching as he fled.

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**A/N**: This story might be short (might is a mighty strong word to take into consideration there). I really want it to be, so I just jumped into the first chapter, sorry about that. But even if it turns out to be 20 chapters long, the story is really only interesting with Harry and Voldemort together. I had to get Voldemort interested in Harry as soon as possible, which again explains for why this chapter seems extremely rushed. Hopefully Harry's character is on its way to being nicely developed. I didn't do a good job with anyone else in this chapter.

Er, it wasn't too bad, right?

Thanks for reading!


	3. A Dark Future

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any material written by J. K. Rolling or Walt Whitman.

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"Speech"  
_.:Parseltongue:.

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_

**And Then There Were Eight**

**Chapter Two: A Dark Future

* * *

**

_How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick; _

_Till rising and gliding out, I wander'd off by myself, _

_In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time, _

_Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars. _

_**-When I Heard The Learn'd Astronomer, Walt Whitman**_

**TTWE**

Harry didn't know where to turn.

After he had blown up the store he had ran down countless streets, looking for somewhere, anywhere, to escape too. Somewhere private, quiet; somewhere where he could gather his thoughts. He just wanted to be alone.

But the more anxious he grew, the more accidental magic he caused. He heard random objects pop and snap around him. Lawn windmills found the urge to spin rapidly as he passed, with no gust of wind present. If he glared at one object too long it changed color. And he could even feel the presence of magic, constantly lingering around him, sticking to the back of his neck, poking him in the side like an annoying thorn.

That, and the pain in his head kept reappearing.

He was growing frightened of himself. He struggled greatly with controlling his emotions. He tried to bring the limited knowledge of occlumency back into his brain, but what had been told to him before hadn't worked in the past, and didn't work now.

He pushed back his frustration, just feeling the magic ripple through his body with just that one emotion.

_Merlin, what's happening to me?_

Could it be some kind of phase? Maybe nothing was wrong with him at all. Maybe other wizards went through the same thing. Yes, maybe it was nothing.

But Harry couldn't comfort himself with those false hopes. He was sure someone would have mentioned it at the Burrow the first time he showed signs of accidental magic, if it was indeed the case. No, this was something out of the ordinary; how bloody fitting for Harry Potter.

"Shit – !" He cried in pain as another wave of magic rushed through him. He grabbed his head, hearing something else snapped in the distance. He cursed under his breath and kicked a rock, which transformed into a rat in mid-air, scurrying away from site when it hit the ground.

He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to take deep breaths. _Just calm down. Stay relaxed. _

A loud _pop _cracked through the air, and Harry curled his fingers into a fist. _Great, what did I do this time? _

But then a few more _pops _sounded and Harry quickly began to realize that was not the sound of accidental magic. It was the sound of apparating.

Harry ground his teeth together. _Wizards_. And in a muggle town. Harry could take a good guess as to who it just might be.

Deatheaters.

The Deatheaters still continued to rack havoc, refusing to admit defeat even with their Lord gone. Why? Harry could only guess.

The Prophet had assumed Voldemort was somehow alive, and usually Harry knew better than to trust the Prophet, but it was clear the Deatheaters had something up their sleeves. Even the oblivious writers on the Prophet couldn't deny something strange was amiss.

The first time Harry heard of a Deatheater attack, after Voldemort had died, Harry had rolled his eyes. The Deatheaters, powerful dark wizards, had begun to act like children. But after a few more "raids" Harry was confused. Usually there raids lasted a good forty minutes. But now, the Deatheaters never got very far in their attacks. There were never any muggles severely harmed. And they were only there for ten minutes, at the most, already disapparating away when Aurors arrived. That in itself was frustrating, since no one could arrive quickly enough to see exactly what was going on.

The thing about the Deatheaters was they went on raids _specifically_ to destroy and fight. And since they were no longer focusing on that, Harry had to wonder what the point was of coming on a raid at all. To keep the public frightened?

But why even go through all of that? The last time Voldemort has "died" all the Deatheaters claimed to have been under the Imperius. This time they all seemed to have been hiding together, proudly keeping their Deatheater title. And they were hiding well, since only five Deatheaters had been caught since the Final Battle. Dozens still walked freely.

They were trying something new this time.

And Harry could finally get a chance to see what they were doing.

He quietly rounded a corner and pressed his back against a wall, straining his ears. But from where he was it seemed like the Deatheaters were...celebrating? They were loud, they were yelling, they were screaming curses at others.

"Eaves dropping, Potter?"

Harry turned around, but found no one there. He grit his teeth and pointed his wand to where he heard the sound. Show yourself!" He commanded.

"Are you sure? Are you ready to see your failure?"

Harry's neck hair prickled. That voice. That voice sounded extremely familiar. But from where? "Show yourself!" He said again, and heard a laugh.

The person popped in front of Harry, and Harry felt his heart stop cold.

Before his was a person who looked strikingly like Tom Riddle. It was like looking at the Horcrux memory from second year down in the Chamber of Secrets. The brown hair, the curves in his face...the only difference was this person was around the age of twenty. And this person had sparkling red eyes.

No – no, it was a trick. Yes, that's what it was. Polyjuice, or galmors. _Something. _Anything. That – that _person _was not here right now. Voldemort was not here right now. Tom Riddle was not here.

"What's the matter, _Harry_?" The person asked, grinning like mad. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

That voice, was it possible to glamor your voice as well? Harry was sure it was, but how could someone even know what _his _voice sounded like? A pensive, maybe? But he didn't think anyone other than Dumbledore had had access to such clear and vivid memories of young Tom Riddle.

Harry was too deep in shock to realize what was going on around him as his magic was lashing out at buildings, and the street; ripping through the brick and cement. He could only focus on this person.

He gulped, not able to hide his confusion and slight fear. But why was he scared? The person before him was obviously not who they claimed to be. It was some Deatheater trick. It _wasn't _Voldemort.

With his voice low and guarded Harry asked,"Who are you?"

The person laughed, taking a step closer. "Why Harry, I'm disappointed. Surely you know who I am?"

Something clicked inside him, and suddenly he couldn't contain his anger anymore, the air hissing around him. "What kind of sick trick is this?" He whispered, taking a step forward with his wand extended. "What kind of twisted humor do you have?"

The person was unfazed by Harry's words, and simply twirled his own wand between his fingers, smirking. "It isn't a trick." The person grinned.

Harry couldn't stand it. He felt a furry. "Stupefy! Confundus! Expelliarmus! Conjunctivitis!" He could barely register the fact all these spells left his wand in an incredible hurry, in huge blasts, and even before he could finish saying the incantation.

His spells rushed towards the imposter, but the person simply step-sided the first and deflected the rest.

"Come now, Harry, you know better spells than that...well, actually, I've never really witnessed anything other than first year spells from you. On second thought, I'll give you credit. You truly are giving it your all right now."

Harry grind his teeth together. Why was this person getting under his skin? Harry was used to taunts and insults. He could usually keep his head during a duel. Surely he wasn't loosing control of his emotions just because some Deatheater decided to play dress up by impersonating a dead Voldemort?

Scratch that, that was exactly what was happening.

"_Crudus!_" Harry shouted, watching in anticipation as the purple beam flew towards 'Voldemort'.

The person barely dodged it and look at Harry incredulously. "Such a dark spell from _Harry Potter_?" The person narrowed their eyes. "How interesting. And I had thought it was those light spells that had been the cause of everything. Interesting."

Harry narrowed his own eyes. "What are you talking about? _Who are you_?"

_.:Really Harry, I didn't know you were capable of such denial.:. _

Harry felt his mouth part open. _No, no, no, no! _It couldn't be. But it _had _to be. The man was clearly speaking parseltongue. And for a moment, a small moment, Harry was only surprised he could still understand the language. But then his mind quickly focused on the most important thing, which was _no _other wizard should be able to speak it. It was impossible to learn. Sure, you could pick up some words from hearing other people speak it, and knowing what they say, like Ron did by hissing _open _to enter the Chamber. But this wasn't anything like that. This was fluent, clear spoken, parseltongue.

But it just _couldn't _be possible.

_.:You're lying!:._ Harry hissed. _.:Voldemort is dead. His horcruxes are destroyed. All seven of them.:._

But the impersonator laughed. ._:So you thought there were seven? Indeed, there were. But I hadn't known you were the supposed seventh. Dear Harry, you were number eight.:._

He felt his eyes go wide, and he subconsciously took a step back. _ .:Wh-what?:._

_.:Dumbledore must have thought I wanted my soul split in seven, and therefore assumed I had made six horcruxes, and finally a seventh, you, by accident. And I had, originally, wanted my soul into seven parts. But I learned of Dumbledore's musings. So I simply made my seventh horcrux, before accidentally making you one. I had eight horcruxes Harry. Eight. Little Harry, I am truly Lord Voldemort.:._

_.:I-impossible.:._ Harry took another step back, feeling everything drain out of him. All of that work...all of that fuss, and yet he had still failed. Voldemort was still alive. _Voldemort was still alive. _"Impossible!" He yelled, switching to English.

He felt a violent tug in his chest and a wave of nausea hit him. The ground started to rip itself apart. He danced around the spreading crack, until he tumbled to his knees as he lost his footing on the shaking ground.

He clutched his aching head, and spared a look at...at V-Voldemort who had already regained himself, and was looking at Harry with a thoughtful expression. Harry had to admit it all felt odd. Besides the fact Voldemort _shouldn't even be alive _and the fact he looked like the same handsome Tom Riddle Harry had seen, the oddest part of it all was that Voldemort wasn't trying to kill him. He hadn't shot one spell towards him. And – holy shit, had Harry just described Voldemort as handsome?

He gripped his wand tightly, and began to stand up, but his legs wouldn't allow that, and neither would his head, putting dizzying black dots in front of his eyes.

He felt a hand grab, and shock, his arm. The shock was strong, and he could feel the person by him gasp. But strangely, instead of pain, an odd sense of peace overcame him. "Gerroff me," Harry mumbled halfheartedly, slowly giving in to the comforting darkness.

"Stubborn as ever, I see." Someone said before sighing. "I swear Potter, you'll be the _real _death of me," The same someone muttered, before disapparating them both away with a soft _pop_.

**TTWE**

When Harry woke up he was aware of many things. He was calm, he wasn't in the middle of a battlefield, and he was in a bed.

He blearily opened his eyes, surprised his glasses were still on. He blinked a few times, clearing his foggy vision.

"AH!" He yelled, reaching for his wand, nor being able to find it. Of bloody course.

He looked in fright at Voldemort, even though it was so incredibly hard to think of him as Voldemort when he looked like _that_; young, nice, pretty...

Pretty? Bloody hell, what happened to him to make him think _that?_

And usually Harry would be very nervous, waking up to find Voldemort sitting next to his bed, but there was one increasingly disturbing factor that made Harry feel numerous things. Voldemort was holding his _hand_.

"The hell, Voldemort?" Harry yelled, trying to yank his hand away, tugging harshly. "Let go of me! Where am I? Give me my wand back! Why haven't you killed me yet? Let go of me!" He continued to struggle, starting to now hit and kick, but he was immediately put into a body bind from the head down as he got violent.

Harry glared at Voldemort, unable to do anything else. "Really, Harry. Have you no pride? You are acting like a child."

"I want to know why the hell your holding hands with me, Voldemort."

Voldemort grimaced at that. "Not _holding hands_. I'm simply keeping you alive, and everything around you untouched, until a more permanent solution is found."

Harry didn't understand what Voldemort was talking about, but he felt very uneasy knowing the Dark Lord's hand was currently wrapped around his. He could feel the warm and sweaty palm clenched against his, and he could feel the man's long fingers wrapped around his own. He wished desperately that he could move his hand. Stupid body bind. "Just _let go_ of me!"

Voldemort raised an eyebrow, and Harry could feel the hand move so only a finger and thumb wrapped around his wrist. "If that's what you really want." Harry felt the fingers move away, but a cold blanket immediately fell on top of him and he could feel something terrible start to crush him, something painful, and he knew it was magic, but he didn't know how he knew that, and he also didn't know magic, namely his own magic, could react so negatively with his body, but that's what was happening, his magic was killing him, his magic was setting everything inside him on fire, his magic was rushing around him, whipping him, shocking him. Harry would have struggled if he wasn't in a bind, and he would have screamed if the air hadn't been stolen from his lungs.

But then, thank Merlin, all the pain went away, and his magic calmed down again, becoming content, loosing its anger, leaving Harry at peace.

Harry could also feel, along with the calm and soothing atmosphere, a hand wrapped around his.

He looked at Voldemort, surprised to see the man's forehead was littered in sweat and he seemed out of breath as well.

His voice shaking, Harry asked, "What just happened?"

Voldemort looked at Harry. "That was your _real _magic."

"_What_?"

"You've been practicing Dark magic, correct?" Voldemort didn't give him time to respond. "Of course you have. I knew the moment you cast that Crudus curse at me. But when did you start this training? You must have been doing it in secret, so I assume you started practicing after _you _assumed the war was over?"

"What's that matter?" Harry asked, nervous to admit his curiosity in the Dark Arts to the Dark Lord. "There are a lot of Dark spells that don't cause people pain, you know. I wasn't looking for torture methods."

"And yet you know a spell that is suppose to give a person a sizable cut that bleeds profoundly and is not allowed to be cured by magic?" Voldemort smirked as Harry felt his cheeks grow hot. Okay, so maybe he stumbled across a few dark curses too, but most of them _had _been spells to heal yourself and others. There were also Dark defense spells, transfigurations, basically every class offered at Hogwarts with the word Dark before the title.

"No, that doesn't matter. What matters is that you started to practice these Dark spells. And I have no doubt that _that_ was the time in which your magic started becoming more out of control."

Harry kept an even glare on the man. "And why would my magic start doing that?"

"Silly child," Voldemort hissed at him. "Why do you think there are two types of magic, light and dark? They are _different_. They pull towards wizards that have magic with similar properties. Now tell me, have you ever felt drawn towards any one magic?"

Harry narrowed his eyes in confusion. How was this relevant? But nevertheless, he answered, looking at the yew wand in Voldemort's hands that was pointed towards his chest. "I don't know. I mean, I started learning Dark magic simply because I felt it was stupid to block out an entire branch of magic because some people thought it was evil."

"How did you feel when casting a dark spell, versus casting a light spell?"

"Er, it was easier, if that's what you mean. At Hogwarts it usually took me a few trys to do something. But with the Dark spells I tried, I usually got it on the second, if not first, go." Harry eyed Voldemort. "Why is that important?"

"Because, you fool, someone tampered with your magic. Which is why we are both in this mess."

"Wait, what?" Harry asked. "Tampered with my magic? And what do you have to do with it all?" Questions swarmed his mind.

"Someone made sure you never felt a pull towards dark magic. Whenever a magical child is born, Healers scan a baby's magic. Usually they can predict what type of magic that baby will be attracted towards when older. This is useful so parents know what to focus on when teaching their children basics, which most magical parents do. So, as a child, you must have shown attraction towards dark magic. Considering you were surrounded by light wizards, and light wizards believing dark magic is the sign of evil, someone could have tainted enough of your magic with light, to make sure you never felt a pull towards dark. I had first assumed it was your Light magic that had been put into a restriction, but the fact it was Dark only makes this situation more dangerous. You haven't been exposed to Dark magic. Therefore you need as much exposure as possible. We'll get to that later.

"The point right now, that you need to understand, is someone blocked your dark magic. They used some kind of spell. But off course, they would need to re-do this spell every year for your magic to stay the way the wanted it to, since a person's magic grows each year. Meaning, whoever it was that did this to you, didn't re-new this spell this year, and in response, your magic started to naturally pull you to the Dark."

Harry felt dazed. "And who would have done that? Why would they stop spelling me now?" Not that he wasn't glad. If what Voldemort was saying was true, Harry felt downright pissed someone would taint him like that, and put him under a false image and keep him away from a perfectly fine branch of magic that was easier for him to use.

"Honestly, Potter, are you dim? It would take someone powerful. Someone Light. Someone who has been around your whole life up until this year. Someone manipulative. Someone who would gain much from you staying out of the Dark. Who do you think it is?"

Honestly, Harry had no idea, but that was because his mind seemed to refuse that anyone around him had betrayed him like this.

At Harry's silence Voldemort rolled his eyes. "Dumbledore, Potter. _Dumbledore_."

Harry shook his head. "No. No, he wouldn't do that." Dumbledore was his mentor. His grandfather in everything but blood and magic. Dumbledore who was there for him, who helped him, who guided him. Dumbledore wasn't bad. "You lying monster!"

Voldemort was unfazed by these words. "Believe what you will, Potter, but Dumbledore isn't the saint you continue to picture him as. You were only a tool to him. All he wanted from you was to fight the war. When has he ever talked with you about things that _weren't _related to the war? You were a tool."

"No I wasn't!" Harry hissed. "Why are you even trying to turn me against him? He's dead! Dead because of your stupid Horcrux!" Which was true. One Horcrux started to eat away at his hand. The other weakened him. Even if Snape hadn't shot the Avada at him, he would have died from one of the Horcrux's not long after.

Voldemort pinched the bridge of his nose with his other hand. "Merlin help me," He muttered. "Dumbledore or not," He started, and Harry glared, knowing full well Voldemort still believed Dumbledore would do that to Harry, "Your magic started lashing out because it started to fully recover. After seventeen years it went under a lot of stress. It was coming back fully. You felt pain in your head, I could see it the way you winced. That was were the block was put. The block that kept your magic from going Dark. Your magic was slowly breaking it, but it was so powerful it caused you pain.

"Casting Dark magic, though, made you feel relief. Small relief, yes, but relief nonetheless. But it wasn't enough. Your emotions were swirling out of control, your magic was becoming more desperate to break away from the block in your head, but nothing you could do was powerful enough, so it grabbed onto the next best thing."

Harry looked at him expectantly. It seemed Voldemort wasn't excited about telling this part. "Which was?"

"Me."

Harry was silent. They both were. Finally Harry asked, "What does that mean, latched onto you?" He asked it even though he didn't want to hear the answer. He had a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"It means that right now you are living off of my magic. This is why your hand is currently _resting _in mine. If I let go for long enough, if I don't give you any physical contact for over a minute, maybe two, you will die."

Harry was beyond confused. "And why not let me die?"

Voldemort sighed. "Because, Potter, your magic is connected to mine. You need mine to live. And very unfortunately, I need yours to live."

Harry gulped, despair sinking in. He didn't want yet another connection between him and Voldemort. It seemed no matter where Voldemort went, Harry always seemed to be intertwined with him. Neither can live while the other survives indeed.

But this, Merlin! This was worse than his scar. He had to always touch _Voldemort _if he wanted to live? Eugh! Really, did the universe hate him that much?

"No way!" Harry yelled, wishing desperately he wasn't in the body bind. He'd rather die than forever be bound to Voldemort.

"Do you think I'm happy about this either?" Voldemort hissed. "I come back to a new body, after another embarrassing defeat, and I find I have to be connected to you if I want to continue living?" Voldemort glared at Harry. "And although I find it much more than unpleasant, I am willing to live like this. And I will put a permanent sticking charm on your hand if you continue to struggle after I release that bind because although it is tempting, you cannot be in it forever."

Harry made a face of disgust, but nodded, his head feeling like lead.

"And don't think of it as forever. Eventually things should calm down and our magic should become much less reliant on each other. There could be ways to speed this process up, but this has never happened before, so research will be difficult. But it won't be forever."

"But it'll be for a while." Harry didn't have to ask, and didn't bother to hide the misery out of his voice.

"Yes, it will be for while."

Harry and Voldemort. Forced not to kill each other. Forced to _touch_. For whoever knew how long.

Oh boy.

* * *

**A/N: **I re-read this twice. Wasn't that happy with it. What did you think?


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